Chapter 13 013
His hand was warm, solid, real. The city a thousand feet below us ceased to exist. There was only the feel of his skin against mine, the quiet catch in his breath, and the storm in his eyes waiting for my answer.
I didn’t have words. Not for a declaration like that. Forever. Everything I am. They were mountain-sized words, and I was standing at the base, feeling small and utterly unequipped.
So I gave him the only answer I had. The truth.
I tightened my fingers around his, just a fraction. A silent squeeze. An acceptance of the touch, of the moment, of the terrifying precipice we were both standing on.
He understood. His eyes closed for a second, a flicker of profound relief washing over his features. When he opened them, the intensity was still there, but it was softer, edged with a wonder that made my heart ache.
He didn’t try to kiss me. He didn’t pull me closer. He simply stood there, holding my hand, as if that single point of contact was the most important thing in his world.
“I should take you home,” he said finally, his voice rough. “It’s late.”
It wasn’t late. It was barely ten. But he was right. If I stayed any longer in this quiet, candlelit penthouse with his forever hanging in the air between us, I might never leave. And that was a decision I couldn’t make on a first… second… whatever this was.
I nodded. “Okay.”
He didn’t let go of my hand as he led me back through the spacious living room, past the kitchen where the ghost of our meal lingered. He only released it to grab his keys from a bowl by the door.
“You don’t have to walk me down,” I said. “It’s just an elevator ride.”
“I am walking you to your door,” he stated, in a tone that brooked no argument. It wasn’t possessive. It was protective. A ritual he needed to complete.
The elevator ride to the third floor was silent, but the silence was different now. It was full of the memory of his hand in mine, of his words. We stood side-by-side, not touching, but the space between us felt charged, alive.
The doors opened on my familiar, dim hallway. It felt like stepping back into a forgotten life. We walked to my door. I fumbled for my keys.
I turned to face him, my back against the wood. He stood close, but not crowding me. The overhead light caught the planes of his face, the serious set of his mouth.
“Thank you for dinner, Leo. It was perfect.”
“It was a beginning,” he corrected softly. His eyes traced my face, memorizing it again. “When can I see you again?”
A laugh bubbled up, nervous and relieved. “You don’t waste time, do you?”
“I have wasted enough of it,” he said, utterly serious. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday. I have a morning commission. A client meeting at the botanical garden.”
His eyes lit with interest. “The gardens. What time?”
“Eleven.”
“I’ll meet you there. At noon. By the fountain in the rose garden.” It wasn’t a question. It was a plan. His certainty was both unnerving and incredibly attractive.
“A third date? In broad daylight? People might see us,” I teased, feeling bold.
A slow, real smile spread across his face. It was still a rare sight, and it hit me like sunlight. “Let them see.”
He leaned in then, and for a heart-stopping moment I thought he was going to kiss me. My breath caught. But he didn’t. He stopped with his lips a whisper from my cheek, and inhaled, deeply, quietly. That same, deliberate sniff from the first night, but now it felt intimate, not eerie. A confirmation.
“Goodnight, Chloe,” he murmured against my skin, his breath warm.
Then he was gone, turning and walking down the hall toward the stairwell. He didn’t look back.
I stumbled into my apartment, locking the door behind me. I slid down to the floor, my dress pooling around me. I brought my fingers to my cheek, where I could still feel the heat of his breath.
My phone buzzed in my clutch. Amanda.
AMANDA: WELL??? FOXGLOVE??? DO I NEED TO CALL IN A SWAT TEAM?
I typed back, my fingers trembling.
ME: No foxglove. No SWAT. He cooked fish. He has a library. He held my hand.
Three dots appeared immediately.
AMANDA: HE HELD YOUR HAND?? THAT’S IT?? AFTER A PENTHOUSE DINNER?? What is he, a Victorian duke?
ME: He said… it was forever. That he doesn’t do things by halves.
The dots stalled. For a long time.
AMANDA: Oh.
AMANDA: Wow.
AMANDA: Okay. That’s… big.
ME: I’m seeing him tomorrow. At the botanical garden.
AMANDA: A daylight date! Progress! I expect a full debrief. And a photo of the library.
I put the phone down and hugged my knees to my chest. Forever. The word echoed in the quiet of my ordinary apartment. It should have felt like a cage, a demand. But the way he’d said it… it felt like a promise. A terrifying, immense, undeniable promise.
And the part of me that had spent a lifetime drawing the safe, predictable lines of leaves and petals wanted to trace the wild, unpredictable shape of that promise more than anything.
The next morning, I met my client at the gardens—a sweet older woman who wanted a series of illustrations of heirloom roses for her grandchildren. We walked the paths, and I took photos and notes, but my mind was elsewhere. I kept checking my watch, my nerves buzzing like bees.
At five to twelve, I made my way to the rose garden fountain. The day was bright and clear, the air sweet with the scent of a thousand blooms. Families and couples strolled the paths.
I saw him before he saw me.
He stood by the fountain, looking out of place and completely at ease. He wore dark jeans and a simple black t-shirt, sunglasses hiding his eyes. He looked more like a model than a CEO, attracting subtle glances from people passing by. He was utterly still, a dark, steady axis in the whirl of color and movement.
Then he turned, as if he’d felt my gaze. He pushed his sunglasses up onto his head. His eyes found me instantly, and that same focused intensity zeroed in, blocking out the entire garden.
He didn’t smile. He just watched me walk toward him, his expression one of deep, quiet satisfaction.
“Hi,” I said, stopping in front of him.
“Hello.” His gaze swept over me—my simple sundress, my sketchbook tucked under my arm. “Your meeting went well?”
“It did. Yours?” I asked. He’d mentioned a conference call.
“It was endured.” He dismissed it with a slight shake of his head. “This is better. Show me.”
“Show you what?”
“Your world,” he said, as if it were obvious. “The one you love. Show me what you see.”
So I did. I led him away from the popular rose garden, down quieter paths into the shaded woodland area, where the plants were less showy but more interesting. I showed him the delicate fiddleheads of ferns, the intricate pattern on a mushroom cap, the way the light filtered through the canopy of an old oak.
He didn’t just follow. He observed. He asked questions—not polite, surface questions, but deep, probing ones. “Why does this moss grow only on the north side?” “What is the function of this particular shape of leaf?” He listened to my answers with total focus, as if my knowledge of botany was vital intelligence.
We found a quiet bench overlooking a pond with water lilies. We sat, and the comfortable silence from last night returned.
“You see the system here too, don’t you?” I asked, gesturing to the ecosystem around us. “The connections. What each thing needs to thrive.”
He nodded, looking at the still water. “It is a more honest system than the one I usually navigate. The rules are clearer. Sun, water, soil. Not power, obligation, deception.”
“Do you think you could thrive here?” I asked softly. “In a simpler system?”
He turned his head to look at me. The sunlight dappled through the leaves, playing across his serious face. “I am beginning to believe,” he said, his voice low and certain, “that I could thrive anywhere. As long as you were part of the environment.”
My breath caught. It was another forever-statement, woven into the ordinary beauty of a Saturday afternoon.
I was about to answer when a loud, familiar laugh cut through the quiet peace of the pond.
I knew that laugh. My blood ran cold.
I turned.
Walking down the path toward us, surrounded by a small crowd of sleek, athletic-looking people, was Felix Garrity. And on his arm, her laughter ringing like sharp bells, was Alexa Vance.
They hadn’t seen us yet. They were coming right for our bench.
Leo followed my gaze. His body, relaxed beside me a second ago, went preternaturally still. I felt the change in the air around him—a sudden, sharp focus that had nothing to do with botanical systems. It was the focus of a predator assessing a threat.
His eyes cut from them to me, reading the shock and dread on my face in an instant.
“Chloe?” he asked, his voice dangerously calm.
But it was too late. Felix’s eyes, scanning the path, landed on me. His handsome face broke into a surprised, delighted grin. He detached from Alexa and the group, striding right toward us.
“Chloe? Hey! Wow, small world!” He reached our bench, his energy like a sunbeam crashing into our shaded silence. He barely glanced at Leo, who had risen to his feet in a smooth, silent motion, placing himself subtly between me and Felix.
“Hi, Felix,” I said, my voice tight. “Yeah. Small world.”
Felix’s gaze finally flickered to Leo, taking in his height, his stillness, his silent, imposing presence. A flicker of confusion, then competitive awareness, passed over his face. “I didn’t know you were into gardens,” he said, his tone still friendly but edged now.
“I’m working.” I held up my sketchbook like a shield.
“Cool, cool.” His eyes darted back to Leo, who hadn’t said a word, just watched him with an unnerving, unblinking stillness. The air crackled with a silent, masculine tension I could feel in my teeth.
Alexa sauntered up then, a catlike smile on her perfect face. “Chloe Reid? Oh my god, it has been forever.” Her eyes raked over me, then over Leo, widening with genuine, intrigued surprise. “Aren’t you going to introduce us to your… friend?”
I was frozen. This was my worst nightmare colliding with my new, fragile reality.
Leo solved it for me. He took one measured step forward, extending his hand not to Alexa, but to Felix. His movement was fluid, deliberate, dominating the space.
“Leo Thorne,” he said, his voice a low, polite rumble that carried an unmistakable weight of authority. “A friend of Chloe’s.”
Felix, off-balance, took his hand. I saw Leo’s grip tighten, just for a fraction of a second, before releasing. Felix flexed his fingers almost imperceptibly.
“Felix Garrity.” Felix tried to reclaim his easy charm, but it fell flat against Leo’s granite composure. “Good to meet you.”
Leo’s gaze slid to Alexa, a brief, dismissive glance that somehow placed her beneath his notice. He then turned his full attention back to me, his stormy eyes asking a silent question.
Do you want to leave?
I did. Desperately.
I stood up. “It was good seeing you both,” I said to Felix and Alexa, my voice miraculously steady. “We were just heading out. Good luck with the… game.”
Leo placed a hand at the small of my back, a firm, guiding touch that was both possessive and protective. He began to steer me away from the group, his body a solid wall between me and them.
We’d only taken two steps when Felix called out, his voice losing its friendly pretense. “Hey, Chloe! I’ll call you later about that art piece, yeah?”
I didn’t turn. I couldn’t.
But Leo did.
He stopped, and looked back over his shoulder. It was just a look. No frown, no snarl. Just a cool, assessing stare that seemed to weigh Felix, find him wanting, and dismiss him all in one second.
He didn’t say a word.
Then he turned back, his hand still on my back, and led me away down the path, leaving a stunned silence in our wake.